


a friendly face

by Samsonet



Series: a friendly face [1]
Category: Daredevil (TV)
Genre: Gen, Implied/Referenced Suicide, Suicidal Thoughts
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-05
Updated: 2018-12-05
Packaged: 2019-09-12 02:59:02
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,137
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16864873
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Samsonet/pseuds/Samsonet
Summary: Marci Stahl is going blind.Matt Murdock helps.





	1. Chapter 1

The doctors have some fancy term for it. They have some explanation about _macular degeneration_ and they say _you may be able to preserve your remaining vision for a while._ What is all boils down to, though, is this:

Marci Stahl is going blind.

It’s not the end of the world. She’s still brilliant and gorgeous and powerful. It’ll just take some adapting, that’s all. She’ll learn to use a cane. She’ll learn how to read Braille. She’ll get her office to accept it all, easy. And as for her personal life --

Well, at least she doesn’t have to worry about Foggy not taking it well. He’s a good person with a kind heart, and he’s got years of experience working closely with blind people.

With a blind person.

And that’s the thing, isn’t it: Matt freaking Murdock. Marci’s boyfriend’s best friend, the guy who disappeared for two months and then just popped up again like nothing was wrong. Foggy loved him so much that when Matt disappeared, Foggy had nightmares almost nightly. Foggy _loves_ him so much that he continues to sacrifice and sacrifice for his sake.

Marci can’t stand Matt.

But she loves Foggy.

It’s because she loves Foggy that she tells him the diagnosis the day she gets it. It’s because Foggy loves _her_ that he offers to ask Matt to teach her how to -- how to be blind. It’s because she loves Foggy that Marci agrees.

Presumably, it’s because Matt loves Foggy that _he_ agrees, too.

The three of them sit in the dining room, warming their hands on mugs of hot coffee. Marci’s trying to get a good look at Matt’s face.

She had thought of going blind as being like flipping a light switch. On, off. Seeing everything and then seeing nothing. That’s what it was like for Matt, after all, right? But for her, it’s different.

She has a blindspot, right by the center of her vision. Her brain tries its best to compensate, but all that means is that, from her viewpoint, Matt Murdock looks like a charcoal grey suit with a charcoal grey cloud where his head should be. She stares over his shoulder instead. At least that way she can see his face in her peripheral vision.

“So,” Matt says, “Foggy told me about your diagnosis. I don’t know how helpful I can be, since our experiences will likely be very different, but.” He shrugs. “I’m here. Ask me anything you want to know.”

“How do you comb your hair?”

Matt actually _laughs._ “Um, I kind of… just hope for the best. My hair is short, so it’s, you know, not really a big problem? Foggy usually tells me if it’s off.”

“I can help you with that, Marci,” Foggy says.

That is… sweet, but Marci would rather not be dependent on someone else for her appearance if at all possible.

Matt seems to guess at her next question, saying “My clothes have Braille labels on the hangers. Foggy helped me set that up, too. He can probably do it for you, too.”

“Let’s hope it doesn’t come to that.” Should she say _no offense_? Well. She’s saying it as a visually-impaired person to another visually-impaired person, so it’s allowed. Probably. “How do you handle things with screens? Like using a cell phone, or a computer, or -- hell, how do you use a _watch_?”

Matt reaches across the table and takes her hand. She allows it, just this once. He places his other wrist under her fingertips.

“What time is it?” he asks.

Marci doesn’t understand at first, but she gets it quickly. The thing on Matt’s wrist _is_ a watch, but not like any she’s seen; it has bumps on it. Braille? She’s about to say she hasn’t learned the alphabet yet, but then she realizes that the bumps are more placemarkers than actual labels. She feels the hands, imagines the numbers they’d be pointing to if the watch was on her wrist.

“It’s four-ten,” she says.

“Exactly.” Matt smiles. “As for the other things you mentioned: a lot of technology has accessibility features, thing like Braille displays and screen readers. I’m not sure if you’ll have to use them, though? I thought you still have most of your sight?”

“I do, but… you know. Better safe than sorry.”

“Fair enough. I’ll teach you what I can.”

They spend the next few hours in that Q&A session. Marci’s questions are all practical, “how do you do this?” or “what do you do about that?”

Matt answers, polite and patient, and at eight exactly he’s saying his goodbyes and getting out of there. Marci doesn’t mind, really. They’ve both done what Foggy asked them to. Now they can go back to their best-friend-vs-girlfriend determined tolerance and things can go back to normal.

That night, after a round of semi-awkward-but-still-really-good sex, Marci and Foggy lie in bed and look at each other’s faces. Usually when they do this, they fall asleep soon after. Foggy does, his eyes falling closed even as he keeps smiling at her, until Marci is alone with his snoring and her thoughts.

Right now, from this distance and with her eyesight as it is, Marci can still see most of Foggy’s face. His features are soft, even kind, if a face could be described as kind. Warm.

Foggy Nelson looked like an angel was _supposed_ to look.

And if her sight deteriorated the way the doctors said it might, there would come a time when she would never see him again.

One day, she might forget his smile, might forget the way his hair framed his face, might forget the wrinkles around his eyes when he laughed.

Her eyes fill with tears even as she tries to tell herself it’s nothing to get emotional over.

She takes a shower, trying to soothe herself with warm water and scented soaps. She gets her warmest pair of sleeping clothes and puts them on.

And then she calls Matt.

He sounds sleepy and confused as he answers: “Hello?”

“How do you _do_ it?”

“Do… what? Marci?”

“Seeing. And then -- not seeing. Foggy is your best friend and you don’t even know what he _looks like_. How do you handle it?”

Matt is silent for a long time. For a moment, Marci thinks he’s fallen asleep. But then he says: “It’s not easy.”

Understatement of the year.

He continues: “Look, there’s -- there’s a lot more to being blind than Braille watches and screen readers. I should’ve let you know earlier. But… Marci, let me tell you something I do.”

“I’m listening.”

“Go back to bed,” Matt says. “Put your ear by Foggy’s chest and listen to his heartbeat. Just… focus on that. It’ll help you sleep.”

It does.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I want to note that Marci would also have actual professionals teaching her this stuff. She goes to those appointments offscreen.

Matt sends an invitation via Foggy: _meet me at Clinton Church after work._ Marci accepts, because it’s the least she can do after waking him up at who-knows-what-time of night.

She spots a vaguely Matt-shaped person sitting on a bench outside the church. As she gets closer, she sees that it is, in fact, the man she’d come to see. She keeps her blind spot on his left and looks at him with her peripheral vision. It’s awkward, but it works.

Matt is wearing a rumpled suit. His tie is crooked. His cane rests next to him. He’s got something in his lap, and one of his hands is curled into a fist.

“Faces are the hard part,” he says.  
  
“...what?”  
  
“To, um. Not see. Or be seen. There’s Braille for reading, there’s audio for most things on a screen. But. Sighted people bond with each other by looking at faces. It’s just… a barrier.”  
  
Marci remembers the horror movies she’s seen where the demons/ghosts/what-have-you look like people, until they take off their blindfolds and reveal they don’t have eyes. Is that what Matt feels like? Is that what  _she_  is going to feel like?

“I like your new glasses,” he says.

Marci’s hands fly to her face and the gold-mirrored sunglasses Foggy had just given her this morning. “How did you…”

“Lucky guess. It’s one of the things people expect, when you’re blind. Braille, white cane, sunglasses. Even if you don’t technically need them.” He taps on his own lenses. “And speaking of expectations… hold out your hand.”

He unfolds the thing in his lap: it’s a second white cane. Marci takes it, swinging it around a bit.

“I’m not sure I need this,” she says.

“Well, even if you don’t need it now, the cane does more than just help you get around. It lets people know you’re blind, for one -- and it’s very useful for tripping people who might need some… instant consequences.”

This makes her laugh. “Alright. Teach me to use it.”

They walk together. Matt sticks to simply giving her advice at first. (“When you’re visibly disabled, people will think they can grab you without permission.” “I’m a woman, Murdock. People grab me without permission already.”)

Then he tells her about Saint Lucy, a stubborn young woman who became the patron saint of the blind. (“I grew up in a Catholic orphanage, I have a box full of medals with her face on them. I can give you one, if you want.”)

Then he asks about Foggy.

“...he’s doing fine. He could do without the stress from your new firm, though.”

Matt pauses, but only for a moment. “At least he’s eating well, right? _Sleeping_ well?”

The innuendo is pretty clear, but Marci dismisses it in favor of the literal question. She remembers all the sleepless nights when Matt was quote-unquote _gone_. A burning anger comes to life in her chest.

“He has nightmares about you, you know.”

“What?”

“When you were gone, he had nightmares. He still does. He dreams about you. He dreams about finding your _body_. You were gone for months and he had no idea what happened to you. I had to watch him go through that, Matt. He was a wreck! Where _were_ you all that time?”

Then she whacks his shins with her cane, because he deserves it.

Matt goes quiet. He does something with his face, but Marci can’t see the specifics.

“Let’s go sit down,” he says.

They go back to the bench in front of the church. Matt collapses onto it. He curls his hands into fists, bringing them to his mouth as though he’s physically keeping himself quiet. Marci decides to give him two minutes and silently starts counting to one-twenty.

She’s counted seventy-three when Matt says, “I tried to kill myself.”

He continues, rushed and soft: “Someone found me, brought me somewhere to get help. I was — I was badly injured. In and out of consciousness for a while. No ID, nobody to call.” A humorless laugh. “I was dead in every way but the one I wanted to be.”

Foggy’s voice echoes in her head: _Matt is gone._

She had always expected “gone” to be a euphemism for “dead”, from the way Foggy seemed to be in so much pain when he said it. Matt’s explanation about suicide answered some questions. Foggy thought that Matt had killed himself. Foggy felt guilty because he didn’t stop it. Foggy wouldn’t tell anyone what happened out of a misguided attempt to protect Matt’s memory. Not the smartest decision, but… she could understand it.

And then, as if the scene wasn’t dark enough, it starts raining.

Well, drizzling, really, but it’s more than enough. Marci stands. “Okay, we’re getting out of here.”

“What?”

“Listen, Mur-- Matt.” She faces him, head tilted down so they’re sort-of looking at each other. (It’s pointless: his face is completely blocked by her blindspot, and it’s not like he can tell she’s trying to make eye contact. Sighted habits are hard to break.) “I admit, I get jealous sometimes about how much Foggy loves you. And I hate how much pain he goes through because of you. For a long time I thought you were the biggest asshole in Manhattan.”

“Oh, no argument there.”

“I’m not done yet. As I was saying: I’m still not sure that you _aren’t_ the biggest asshole in Manhattan. But knowing what I know now… I’m willing to give you a chance. To recover. To get better. Foggy’s much happier with you around, you know. And. It’d be nice, personally, to have a blind friend that I can vent to when my eyes finally give up.”

“...thanks, I love you too.”

She turns and starts walking away. “Save the sarcasm. It’s _cold_ out, I’m going to a warm cafe where I’ll buy a fancy drink with a dozen ingredients. If you come with me, I might buy you one, too.”

They walk together. Out of the corner of her eye, Marci sees Matt smile.


End file.
